


The Widowmarker

by app_jelly



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Crack, F/F, F/M, Humor, More tags later, comedic smut, minor widowtracer, someone else dies i'm so sorry :'(, the major character death is just for Gérard btw, this work shouldn't be taken seriously at all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-01-30 01:26:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12643326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/app_jelly/pseuds/app_jelly
Summary: A reimagining of Widowmaker's origins.Talon's reconditioning of Amélie Lacroix doesn't go exactly as planned. She ends up with an ability that no one saw coming, something to do with markers."Widowmaker? Who le fuck is that? I’m Widowmarker."





	1. Sometimes You Don't Mean To Kill Your Husband

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote it in the tags, but I'll write it again here. This work is written purely for humor. It shouldn't be taken seriously at all. It's crack so please don't leave any comments asking why widow is ooc. It's just for fun. 
> 
> Anyway, please enjoy and let me know what you think!

Gérard Lacroix had been a thorn in Talon’s side for far too long. They had one last-ditch plan to get to him. It involved his wife.

While Amélie was out shopping for a shit ton of baguettes, a large white Canadian school bus suddenly appeared out of nowhere. The doors creaked open silently behind her unsuspecting form.

_Quoi? Five kilograms of beans for a single baguette? This is a steal!_

She quickly deposited thirty-five pre-packaged packages of packaged beans onto the baguette stand’s counter. “Muchas gracias. Oh fuck, pero, I mean wait! Merci.”

The stand owner honestly didn’t give a fuck about her slip-ups. French people usually spoke around 16 languages. It was natural to mix up some words. He just wanted them beans. “Ay carajo, get the fuck out of her already.”

“Quoi??? What do you mean by her? Am I in the middle of, como se dice, fucking someone?”

William, the name of the stand owner, looked at her bewildered. “Haven’t you noticed your fingers shoved up that lady’s puss purse for the last ten minutes?”

Amélie looked down at her still pumping fingers. “Oh, merde. I’m married don’t you know?!” She quickly removed her fingers, wiping them on the random woman’s blouse. But the woman wasn’t random at all. They worked together at the local ballet factory. They fucked on the regular. Amélie just didn’t want to admit it.

“Thank-you kind sir for saving my marriage, and these bomb ass baguettes.” She turned to stalk her way back home to the loving arms of her husband, Gérard, whose arms weren’t home at all, but rather at Blackwatch, trying to pry open Talon’s asshole.

Her first step landed her on the first step of the Canadian school bus. Instead of turning around and accepting her misstep as a mistake, not to be confused for a missteak, Amélie confidently walked onto the suspicious bus and seated herself comfortably near one of the front windows. “Driver-san, take me home.”

The driver slammed the school bus doors closed and floored it in the opposite direction of her home. They were headed straight, or rather bi-curiously, towards Talon HQ.

Amélie, confused but content to accept this cruel twist of fate, lowered her sunglasses onto her tired eyes and settled into her seat for a nap. _Sacré bleu, what the fuck ever. I’ll get home eventually._

In a way, she was right.

Two weeks later, that same Canadian school bus dropped her off in the same spot she was picked up in the same outfit with the same baguettes.

Amélie sniffed the baguettes she had clutched in her arms. “Mon Dieu, these have gone bad. Why did I buy them?” She chucked the moldy trash bread into the moldy trash bin on the side of the street.

When she returned home, it was to the waiting arms of her worried, now relieved, husband.

“Oh, Amélie, my love! Where have you been?”

Amélie threw her sunglasses onto the ashtray of her fucking table, the coffee table in the living room on which she regularly fucked her husband. “Talon HQ I suppose. They had me watch horrible videos involving cheese and assassination. They also had me take a personality quiz. I’m apparently French. Well, in their words, the most French person alive in France.”

Gérard looked at his wife with his eyelids peeled back. “N-nani? Talon you say? We have to get you checked out by a doctor.” He picked up his wife in a sick ass bridal carry and brought her to Overwatch HQ. The one in Switzerland.

When they reached the Swiss base, tired and huffing, Gérard speed walked them to the med bay. He slammed open the door. “Angela! My wife was kidnapped by Talon for two weeks. Please, check her out to make sure they didn’t do anything.”

Angela sat frozen in her swivel chair, both of her hands suspiciously hidden from view under her desk. “Uh, ja, I’d be happy to. Just, uh, set her down over there,” she motioned to an exam table on the far side of the room, “and get the fuck out of here. Patient confidentiality and all.”

Gérard quickly dropped his wife onto the table and gave her a parting smooch. “I’ll be out trying to fist Talon in the asshole if you need me.” And then he was GONE.

“Oh, thank GOD.” Angela felt comfortable enough in his absence to take her hands out from underneath her desk. If anyone had walked in on her earlier, she would have claimed that she was knitting. But, in the light of the fluorescent lights lighting her office, it was clear that she was doing _other_ things. Namely, herself.

Sitting around in the med bay all day was boring. She couldn’t help that her hands drifted every once in a while every day.

Angela got up from her desk and washed away the good time from her hands in a nearby sink. “So, Talon kidnapped you was it?”

Amélie, a sweaty mess from the 115-hour walk to the swiss bae and also base, didn’t quite catch what the good doctor had asked her. “I would like to take a French shower.” She rolled off the exam table and stalked over to Angela’s private shower. She took a baguette that was hanging on the wall and ate it while she showered in tea scented, and flavored, body wash.

After an acceptable amount of time in French, Amélie emerged from the shower. For the first time in almost five days, she was clean. She felt French again.

“Now, where were we?”

Angela had fallen asleep waiting for Amélie to be done becoming French again. She would have went right back to touching herself, but sleep won out over fun times. At the sound of Amélie’s voice, her head snapped up. “Oh, good. You’re finally fucking done showering.” The only reason she fell asleep in the first place was because Amélie was in the shower for a good six or so hours. Angela had reason to believe she had more than one baguette. “Are you ready for your exam?”

“Oui.”

The “exam” was just Angela ogling her patient for a good ten minutes. “Hmm, yes. Turn around?” It’s a good time as any to mention that Amélie was stark naked. “Oh, yes, wunderbar. Everything looks good. I don’t think Talon did anything to you. Brainwash maybe, but I can’t see that with my eyeballs, lol.” She took out a piece of paper with the official Overwatch logo on it. She checked a box that said ‘NOT UNDER TALON INFLUENCE MOST DEFINITELY’.

Amélie draped herself along the doctor’s desk. That examination took the wind out of her sails, which is another way to say she was tired. “Finally. Now we can get on with other things. You in the mood to fuck?”

“Ja, what kind of question is that? Of course, I am. I may have fucked myself silly earlier, but I’m always in the mood for a fisting from my best gal pal.”

“Fuck yeah. Let’s see if I can get half of my arm up your love hole this time.” She snapped on a pair of cow inspecting gloves and said, “Let’s get to work.”

It took a fuck ton of time, effort, love juice, and general arousal, but they did it. If Angela had to rate the experience, she’d give it thirteen nuts out of ten. That shit was lit.

Angela and Amélie found themselves smiling and panting along the floor of the med bay. That was the best fucking they ever did to each other. “Oh, ja, you’re definitely the same Amélie from before. I don’t think Gérard has anything to worry about.”

And that was how Amélie got the all clear from Overwatch’s chief of medical research that she was definitely not under any influence from Talon.

She came home to her empty apartment, dearly missing her dear husband whom she held dear in her heart, dearly. _Where the fuck is he? I need him to spoon feed me wine while I stare longingly outside of the window for aesthetic. It’s not something you can do by yourself._ A quick text to her husband ensured that he would return within the hour.

 _Now, what should I do to bide the time?_ Amélie could think of only one thing, her taxes. It was important for her to be fiscally responsible and it always ended up wasting her fucking time.

Gérard returned to their home to the sight of Amélie frantically pulling out her hair while chewing on the bill of her baseball cap that she wore exclusively when she did her taxes. _Oh no._

Amélie looked up at her husband, eyes shining with barely concealed agitation. “How long?”

Gérard, Blackwatch agent, loving husband, and collector of chipped dinner plates stood stock still in the doorway, sweat pouring down his face. “How long what my dear?” He knew damn well what she was getting at. It was just habit at this point to play dumb.

“Mon Dieu, the taxes! How long have we not been paying them?”

“Ah, well, remember when we got married?”

“Oui.”

“Your only vows to me were ‘fuck the system’. It was hot and endearing at the same time.”

Amélie stared blankly at her husband. What did her vows have to do with not doing their taxes? “Yes, I vividly remember saying that and then scarring our guests with passionate love-making directly thereafter. But, what does that have to do with our taxes? We could get into big trouble if we’re not already.”

Gérard finally summoned the courage to step inside their home, closing the door gently behind him. “That’s just it, ma petite omelette au fromage, we haven’t paid taxes since we’ve been married because of your vows. Every time I brought it up, you’d just say ‘fuck the system’. I stopped asking after the first couple of years.”

If it was possible for her eyes to leap out of her skull on cue, Amélie’s would be writhing on the floor. As it were, she had to settle for the widest stare she could manage. “Mon cher mari, I would always mumble afterward ‘please do them’. How has the government not come after our sorry asses?”

“Oh, they have. Why do you think we move so much? It certainly has nothing to do with Blackwatch or a change of scenery. We’re wanted by the government my love. But, fuck the system yeah?”

 _Mon dieu, wanted by the government? Fuck me._ “Oh, yes. Fuck the system. Definitely. Although, all of a sudden, I’m not in the mood for being spoon fed wine. Let’s go fuck in the bedroom, yes?” Amélie dragged herself away from the stressful tax situation. She chugged a half bottle of the most expensive bottle of wine they had before meeting her husband in the bedroom.

“Okay, here’s how this is going to work,” Amélie started, staring down her husband in a haze of too much wine and tax anger. “You’re going to fuck me in the best way you know how. And then we’ll stare out the window for a good hour forlornly. If it’s raining, there’ll be bonus points. Are we clear?”

Gérard, already in his birthday suit, quickly nodded his head. “Um, yes. Would you like me to tie myself up, dear?”

“Non, how will you fuck me if I’m the one fucking you?”

“Hmm, you make a good point.” Gérard sat up in bed wearing his best smolder. “Come on over, baby.” He patted his lap, nervousness shining through his eyes the whole time.

Amélie was not impressed. “What le fuck are you doing? This is completely unsexy. Try a little harder, husband.”

 _Husband? What the fuck? Did she have too much wine?_ Gérard was at a loss. All the years of having awesome straight sex with his wife couldn’t help him with his current predicament. He just didn’t know what she wanted from him. So, he did the only thing he could think of.

“Holy le fuck. Did you… did you just punch me in the clit?”

“Um, yes?” _Oh no. Oh fuck. This is it. This is how I die._

“Do it again, do it to me even harder.”

 _N-Nani? I yet have life?_ If she wanted her clit punched harder, he wasn’t going to argue with her.

For a good twenty minutes, they had weird clit punching sex. Amélie looked to be having the time of her life. Gérard looked like a crazed man, forced into a situation that didn’t make any sense.

“Oh yes, my sweet baguette, I’m so close to getting off. Just a few more bomb ass punches.”

With one hand Gérard obliged his wife. With the other, he tried to sensually run it up her side. It was a big fucking mistake.

Amélie’s eyes snapped open from their previous closed bliss. “What le fuck do you think you’re doing? You know I’m ticklish. Stop it right now.”

Unfortunately, Gérard did not heed her warning quick enough. In the blink of an eye, Amélie pulled out a gun from her bittchin’ ponytail and executed her husband on the spot.

The tickling stopped immediately.

“Oh, finally. I did not know how much more I could take.” Apparently, the reality of the situation had yet to sink in. For Amélie, it felt like she just squished a mosquito. For Gérard, if felt like he was dead. And, he was. He really was.

“Honey bucket? Why have you stopped fucking me? Was it because I didn’t like the tickling?” She looked down at her husband when he continued to not answer. “Oh, wow. Fuck me. Or, in this case, don’t fuck me because you’re dead.”

Amélie hopped off her husband’s dick, the one she was totally riding the whole time, and calmly walked over to the window. “I guess only one of us gets to look forlornly out of this shit.”

“Hmm, nah. I can look out of it too for a while. Before I go to the afterlife, I suppose.”

“Oh, wow. I’m already hearing his voice.”

“No, no. It’s really me. Well, ghost me. The ghost of the man who you loved, married, and murdered.”

Amélie turned around from her window gazing to see that her ghost husband was, in fact, telling the truth. “How can this be? You are dead and therefore shouldn’t be able to talk to me, at all.”

“Normally, yes. But, I have one request before I move on to the afterlife. I need you to fill in my mustache. It’s looking a little sparse.”

A quick search of her makeup drawer proved fruitless. “Oh merde. I forgot I let my fuck buddy at work borrow all of my make-up. I think I have a drawer full of markers.”

While she looked through her drawer in complete darkness, Ghost Gérard looked on at his former wife wide-eyed. _Fuck buddy at work? It’s a good thing I’m dead and just don’t fucking care about worldly things except for my mustache. But, damn, that explains a lot of things about Amélie._

“Mon Dieu, it’s so dark in here. Do you think you could… oh, fuck you’re dead. Nevermind.” Amélie uncapped a marker at random. Just from the smell alone, she could tell that it was black. _Quoi? How le fuck do I know this?_ She didn’t give herself much time to ponder how she could tell the color before she went to work filling in her dead husband’s mustache. “There, now when Overwatch finds your corpse at least your mustache will be hella fine looking.”

“Thanks, babe, living with you was lit while it lasted. Oh, and maybe you should start running before you are tried and executed for murdering me in cold blood.”

“Who’s to say that it was me that murdered you? Hmm? Who would pin the blame on the loving wife? But I will take your advice anyway. For whatever reason, I really want to get back to Talon. They still owe me some baguettes from the time they took me away for a few weeks.”

Amélie fished out a business card from the same ponytail the gun was hiding and pulled out her phone to dial the number. “Oui, is this Talon? Okay, so I have a few issues right now. One, you bittches owe me some baguettes from the time you stole me away for a few weeks to watch awful videos. Two, I just killed my husband and I think you guys are hiring? I’ll be waiting in my apartment with packed bags. Please be here by tomorrow. I don’t want to deal with a decomposing body. Especially the one of my husband.”

Talon didn’t come by for at least two more days.

It was a good thing she actually didn’t give a shit and that the spare bedroom was on the opposite side of the apartment.

A knock at the front door brought her out of her two-day long reverie. _Finally, I can stop cooking everything in the fridge for absolutely no reason._

She opened the door to reveal the same Canadian school bus driver from the day of her first disappearance. “You again? Talon can’t afford to send someone else?”

The bus driver just shrugged her off. “Eh, I live in the area. You ready?”

Amélie looked back at her packed bags laying idly near the coffee table. There were around twenty of them and she wanted some help. “Oui, yes. Could you help me with my bags?”

She might as well have asked her dead husband for help because the bus driver blatantly ignored her.

 _Fuck me, I packed everything I owned. Should I just leave it here?_ The sight of all twenty of her overstuffed bags almost convinced her that, yes, she should just leave them behind. But her inner materialist disagreed. _Fuck, I can’t leave my fifty pairs of designer flip-flops or vibrators behind. Some of those are even unused!_

She was forced to spend the next half hour dragging her bags all the way down to the school bus by herself. The school bus that was parked a few blocks over for no damn reason.

By the time she had finished, her clothes were completely soaked through with sweat. Bus driver guy looked none worse for wear. Because he wasn’t. Because he didn’t help at all. And he was completely fine with that, comfortable even. _Holy le fuck. The first thing I’m going to do as a Talon agent is kill this bitch._

“Oh, great. You’re finally done. I thought about coming back later, but I probably would have been assassinated. I was already late picking you up as it was.”

 _No shit._ “No shit monsieur bus driver-san. Mark my words, when I’m a Talon agent, you’re dead.”

The apathetic bus driver simply closed the doors and sped off towards Talon headquarters. “Yeah, yeah. That’s what they all say. But guess what? I’m still kickin’.” He whistled an out of tune rendition of “My Heart Will Go On” by the late and great Celine Dion the rest of the way.

_He’s lucky this song is a fucking classic._

Eventually, his terrible whistling lulled Amélie into a peaceful slumber featuring Celine Dion. In her dream, she was singing a duet version of “My Heart Will Go On” with the French-Canadian wonder. They held hands and stared into each other’s eyes, occasionally wiping away stray tears. When the song was over, they fucked.

She would have been content to stay dreaming of Celine Dion for the rest of her life, but when the bus came to a sudden, screeching halt, her face planted into the back of the seat in front of her. It definitely woke her up. _Fuck me, we were just about to sing “The Power of Love” together and then fuck one last time before she was beamed back up to the moon._

Amélie stretched her limbs as she made her way off the bus. To her surprise, a team of Talon grunts retrieved her bags from the back and brought them inside the base. She didn’t even have to ask. _Things are looking up already._

A pasty ghost-looking woman with way too long nails stepped forward to greet her. “Excellent, it looks as if your conditioning worked as planned. You are here because you killed your husband, yes?”

It wasn’t every day that Amélie was too stunned to say anything. But, this woman sent her reeling. _I… I can’t understand a fucking word she just said._ “Did you just call my mother an apple?”

The red-haired crazy scientist had the nerve to laugh at her. “No, no. Not at all. I just wanted to confirm that you killed your husband.”

“Oh, so you’re calling me an asshole then? I’ll have you know that if my husband was alive, we’d kick your ass together.”

Apparently, the short-haired demon lady really liked what she said. “Excellent, follow me and we’ll begin with the rest of your conditioning. You’ll be an asset to the team in no time.”

Amélie followed the woman with the tank of piss strapped to her back even though she still couldn’t understand her. She just didn’t want to be left behind. _I’m definitely never going to fuck her. Hopefully, I’ll meet someone that’ll be able to speak properly._

It wasn’t long before her wish came true. The nicest omnic in the universe took over for the sleep-deprived gangly woman. They led her into an examination room and asked her to strip, which she totally didn’t have a problem with in the slightest.

Within seconds of her panties hitting the floor, she was surrounded by scientist-looking individuals that were eager to poke and prod at her. “Hey, at least get a woman a burger first.”

One of the scientists actually did pull out a burger. Apparently, it was a common side-effect of Talon conditioning.

The burger immediately appeased the cranky widow. She took a large bite before she answered, “Proceed.”

And proceed they did. They proceeded to proceed with whatever the fuck they were proceeding with for the next few weeks, proceedingly. Or maybe it was months? Sometimes, it was lit. Other times, it wasn’t lit at all.

When all the physiological changes were completed, Amélie was shoved into the waiting arms of not-scientist looking individuals. She was trained from A to Z in everything and anything about assassinating people and shit. And, for whatever reason, they taught her a shit ton about gambling.

At the end of her near constant training and medical exams, she was brought before a council of Talon head honchos. “We’d like to formally welcome you into the fold, Widowmaker.”

_Widowmaker? Who le fuck is that? I’m Widowmarker._


	2. Slender Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go a little differently at the Mondatta assassination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finally back with part 2! Not gonna lie, this chapter is like 80% fucking. Hopefully, it's at least a little funny. Enjoy!

Château Guillard, her old stomping grounds. Talon made it abundantly clear that while they were glad to have her on the team, they weren’t going to be rooming her at HQ. Apparently, she was filthy rich and could stay at her fancy castle-fortress-château-house-manor-place-of-residence. Amélie tried to argue that it was hella drafty, but she was basically told to suck an egg and pay for renovations.

_Renovations… Don’t they know that I’m literally conditioned to execute people on the spot? I fucking hate home improvement workers. They come in and knock out walls they shouldn’t and piss in my toilets. Fuck them._

Amélie was knee deep in blue paint in the master bath. She had opted to do any and all needed renovations to her home herself. It would be a lot less work than dealing with the body count that would stack up had she hired professionals to do it for her. Besides, she only really gave a shit about repainting the walls the same color blue as her skin, which is why she was standing in a tub full of paint.

_I can’t believe I have to stay in this beautiful shithole. The only thing good about the place is the sun setting across the lake, the isolation, the wine cellar, and those hella awesome jump pads._

She took a bucket, dipped it in the pool of blue paint, and splashed it against the walls as she spun in a circle. Three-sixty no scope, GG easy.

“Parfait,” Amélie said as she climbed out of the tub. Paint drenched every inch of the bathroom walls, even the mirror. She decided mid-way through her renovations that it was too much work. The bathroom would be the only room she repainted. Blue footprints followed her out of the room and towards the outdoor fountain that she used to bathe. She was already naked, so she didn’t waste any time diving into the shallow waters of the fountain.

The water was freezing and would have sent shivers down her spine had she not been a living popsicle. “Blueberry,” she said. “I am a blueberry popsicle floating atop a river of melted ice cubes, water if you will. Eventually the water warmed enough to melt me, leaving only the stick. The stick reads… Gucci Shrimp. I played myself. I was a designer popsicle all along and let myself melt because… I haven’t fucked anyone since before my conditioning. Quizás… I should have hired the renovators after all. We could have fucked before I killed them.”

Amélie stayed in the fountain until her skin started to prune. She would have stayed longer had her ponytail not started ringing. She fished out the cellphone she kept in it and answered the call. Hopefully it was Talon calling about her first mission. “Lacroix speaking.”

“Uhhh… yeah. Can I get fifteen baguettes and a bottle of wine to go?”

Amélie almost threw her phone up and sniped it out of the air with the mini rifle she kept in her ponytail. Almost. Who was this donkey’s asshole asking for _her_ baguettes and _her_ wine?

“Signore asshole-san, who the fuck do you think you are asking for my bomb ass baguettes and wine? Hmmm? Do you want me to make love to your asshole before I blow your brains out?”

The person on the other end laughed. “I was just fucking with you. This is Talon. We sent you information regarding tomorrow’s mission. You should be receiving a package today with your new uniform and destination coordinates. It’s time for your first kill.”

Amélie pulled herself out of the fountain and dried off with a Gucci Shrimp towel. _Fucking finally. Maybe I can get that bus driver bitch while I’m at it._

-

“Your target is the omnic shopkeeper of Bits n’ Coins. You are to blow his brains out when he locks up for the day. Well, his robot brains. Are we clear?” Some guy from Talon had been talking off her ear about her first mission for the past ten minutes. She wanted to murder him. Then maybe fuck him later. Or perhaps the other way around?

“Widowmaker?” he called out.

_Whomst le fuck?_ Widowmarker had a gut feeling, the only type of feeling she was capable of these days besides from fucking, that these Talon agents were fucking with her. And not in the way that she liked. It was always Widowmaker this and Widowmaker that. Who was that bittch? Widowmarker thought that perhapsingly they were referring to _her._

“Widowmaker, do you copy or not?”

_Fuck me with a flip-flop, he is talking to me._ “It’s Widowmarker you fucking flip-flop.”

“Oh, good. You did hear me. Report back when you’ve completed the mission. Deuces.” The Talon agent flashed a peace sign even though he was positive no one saw it. It was the effort that counted, after all.

Widowmarker grappled onto the nearest roof from the alley she’d been hiding in for the last four hours. She activated her recon visor and homed in on the entrance to Bits n’ Coins. It was almost closing time. She could tell because the sign said they closed at eight. It was seven forty-five.

_This motherfucker should be closing up any minute now. He only sells bits of coins, nobody would want to come just before closing for that shit._

The shopkeeper did not sell bits of coins. And, he did end up having a last-minute customer. This last-minute customer, however, was just the man Widowmarker had been fantasizing about: Bus Driver-san. Her eyes grew wide. She pulled a glass of water out of her ponytail, took a sip, and then spit it out.

_Mon Dieu, that’s the fly fucker that made me wait two days in my apartment with my rotting husband. That settles it, there’s only one thing to do. Trickshot._

At seven fifty-nine on the dot, the shopkeeper and Bus Driver-san exited the shop together. Bus Driver-san looked relieved. With her extensive lip-reading skills, Widowmarker could make out that Bus Driver-san had just bought the last whatever-the-fuck-he-came-to-the-shop-for and that he was grateful to the shopkeeper for reserving it behind the front desk for him. The shopkeeper waved him off, saying it was no trouble and that – blah blah blah. Widowmarker actually didn’t give a shit about what they were saying. In fact, she couldn’t even read lips. In fact, she had been too busy grappling herself into the air to pay any attention to their conversation. In fact, she had them both lined up in her scope and had taken them out before either of them had said a word to the other. In fact, both of their brains were blown out before she fell back onto the roof.

_GG, easy._

Widowmarker hotwired the Canadian school bus parked down the block and drove herself back to her château. When the lake was in sight she floored the gas pedal and jumped out of the window just before the bus nosedived into the lake from the bridge. She pulled out a pair of Gucci Shrimp sunglasses and put them on as she strut back to her home, her rifle slung hella awesomely over her shoulder.

What she thought was a persistent itch was actually her ponytail vibrating off the hook. She forgot that she put her phone on silent for the mission. “Oui, Lacroix speaking.”

“Um, yes, hello? How was the mission? Did you kill the guy or what? It’s been over two hours and, you know, all of us here at Talon were just wondering how you did.”

Widowmarker stopped cold in her tracks. “Quoi? You mean no one saw me do that hella lit trickshot? I was actually by _myself_ completely _unsupervised_?

The Talon agent on the other side of the line twiddled his thumbs nervously. “What can we say? We trust you a lot to get the job done. All that conditioning should have made you a reliable asset.”

Widowmarker grinned deviously. She was going to have tons of fun with this no supervision thing. Apparently, as long as she hit her marks, she could do whatever she wanted. “The shopkeeper is dead.”

-

SEVEN YEARS LATER

“Alright, Widowmaker. Your next target is Mondatta. You are to kill him at tonight’s speech.”

Widowmarker was out getting coffee at her favorite place, Bits n’ Coins: Coffee Shop Franchise. She wore a bittchin’ Versace Lobster low-cut dress and heels combo just because she could. People stared at her but were too scared to say anything. The cute barista had just finished writing the fake name she gave on her to-go cup with a marker. Widowmarker sniffed the air. _Purple._

Sure enough, when she received her order, the name “Poptart” was written in purple ink. “My condolences about your husband,” she said to the barista.

The barista, who forgot her nametag at home and therefore shall remain nameless, broke out in tears as fresh as the baguettes sold at the shop. “He was murdered last night, and by that I mean seven years ago, when he went to go pick up the last Canadian school bus one-sixteenth scaled model they soled and sold at Bits n’ Coins. And then I didn’t even get the day off today, seven years later.”

Widowmarker put on her Gucci Shrimp sunglasses unsympathetically. “I take it back. Your husband was a motherfucker. Fuck him.”

“…you don’t gotta call a dead man out on his kinks.”

Widomarker turned around sharply, slapping the grieving barista with her sick ass ponytail. “Désolé,” she said exiting the coffee shop. But she wasn’t sorry at all.

“Widowmaker, dammit, did you hear a word I said to you?”

“Non, I wasn’t listening.”

The Talon agent let out an exasperated sigh. Widowmaker had been a handful since after her first mission, but she always got the job done. They just had to put up with her whims. “You are to kill Mondatta tonight during his speech.”

“Oui, got it. Kill Mongatta.”

“No, it’s _Mondatta.”_

“Monbatta, yes, I know.”

“ _Mondatta._ ”

“Le fuck? That’s what I’ve been saying you asshole.”

“…just report back when the job is done.”

LATER THAT DAY

Widowmarker scoped out the rooftops surrounding the eager crowd awaiting Mondatta’s arrival. Guards were posted fucking _everywhere._

_Merde. Now I have to kill all of them._

She really didn’t. But she definitely wanted to.

Widowmarker expertly killed every one of them with her fist and her bittchin’ ponytail. Their faces made a sick cracking noise at the exact moment of their death. It was music to her ears and an aphrodisiac to her nipples.

_Mon Dieu, I can feel myself leaking down my legs. Parfait._

She meant that in a literal sense, of course, because she couldn’t feel any emotions. Except for fucking. She most definitely felt that which catalogued it as an emotion in her book. Consciously, she knew it was horseshit – the no emotions part, because by God did she enjoy the fucking part. She felt a lot of things, however muted those feelings might be. The only thing she truly couldn’t feel was remorse, which was bittchin’ because it let her do whatever the fuck she wanted without any residual guilt, like assassination.  

Widowmarker anchored her grappling hook to the roof and dove off the side, sliding downward until the cable grew taught. She looked bittchin’, hanging upside-down, scoped-in, and ready to assassinate the leader of the Iris movement. Her target lined up perfectly through the neighboring building’s window.

_It’s a shame he is an omnic. No blood spatter tonight._

She was a hair’s breadth away from pulling the trigger when she felt something tickling her all over. Widowmarker tried to ignore it, but the tickling wouldn’t stop. _Tch._

Bullets, turns out it was bullets.

“Trying to crash another party, love?” A cheery voice called out from above her. It was Tracer, Overwatch’s former poster child.

Widowmarker rolled her eyes. “Non, I’m trying to assassinate Mondatta. There is no party, are you blind?”

Tracer’s face flushed from embarrassment. “I was trying to reference our last encounter. You know, at the museum?”

“That wasn’t a party either,” Widowmarker replied. She untangled her leg from her cable and grappled back up to the roof. She walked over to the shorter brunette until she loomed over her. “Can I help you with something. I’m in the middle of trying to assassinate Mondatta because Talon told me to and I don’t appreciate you shooting me with your little pellet guns.”

“I’ll have you know I was shooting you with pulse bullets!”

Widowmarker stared blankly at her. “What in Heaven’s left flip-flop are pulse bullets? Can you even kill anyone with those? Do you just tickle people to death?”

Tracer looked helplessly at her twin pulse pistols. She had to use a whole clip to get any real damage out of them and even then, she had to be relatively close to minimize damage drop-off. “Is it valid to tickle people to death?”

“Non, it’s not.”

The two stood in silence. Tracer wondered if she had ever given anyone more than a few bruises. Widowmarker wanted Tracer to go away.

“You really gonna kill Mondatta, then?” Tracer finally asked.

"Oui, you want to fuck about it?" Widowmarker flipped her ponytail nonchalantly. Now that she brought it up, fucking did sound like a great mid-assassination break, perhaps a snack as well.

"EXCUSE ME?"

"I said, you want to fight about it? I swear, Americans can never understand a single thing French people say."

"But I’m not American."

"Might as well be. So, we on for fucking now or later?"

“I’m… I don’t think…” Tracer’s skin flushed a hot red.

Widowmarker reached out for one of Tracer’s hands, admiring it in the moonlight. “Your hand is so slender.” She brought one hand to her lips and sucked on two of the fingers. They left her mouth with a wet popping sound, completely drenched in her saliva. “I want you to shove it up my asshole.”

Tracer’s eyes bulged at the sight of her now dripping fingers. The tingles she felt in the pit of her stomach dropped lower. She nodded her head frantically. “Yeah, sure. I can definitely help you with that now, in this very moment.”

“Perfetto.” Widowmarker suddenly grew a small handle-bar mustache and twirled her finger around the end of it before it fell off her face. “Now then, I need you to do everything I say. Claro?”

Tracer didn’t know what to think about what she just saw, but her vagino was mad leaking. Logically, it was ridiculously attractive. “Yeah, sure. Sounds peachy.”

Widowmarker stripped out of her latex suit, somehow leaving her boots and grappling hook on. She threw it at Tracer, smirking when the she found the giant messy wet spot at the crotch. “Completely strip in ten seconds or less or you don’t get to lick the suit clean.”

Tracer started with her shoes, using her blinks to take off all her clothes from the bottom up in six seconds flat. She even took off her goggles and earrings.

Widowmarker eyed the neat pile of clothing approvingly. “Excellent job, you even had four seconds to spare.”

“What can I say? I’m a bit of an overachiever.”

“Overachievers deserve a reward, non?” Widowmarker motioned to her soiled latex suit lying on the roof. The sight of Tracer practically tripping over herself to get to it set her loins ablaze. She pulled a fire extinguisher out of her ponytail to put out the fire.

“Bloody hell,” Tracer said halfway through demolishing her treat. “This tastes like, warm, fresh baguettes. Finally, some good fucking food.”

“If you drink it straight from the source, you might find it has a different flavor.” Widowmarker spread her legs wide on the blanket that came out of nowhere. Her glistening folds on full display was enough to turn a person away from water in a desert.

If the rooftop was a desert, then Tracer was the crazy fool crawling for da pussy instead of water. “Your pussy is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. It’s right up there with the Mona Lisa.”

Widowmarker scowled. “You mean that eyebrowless bitch? Try again chérie.”

“Uh, how about the ocean? That bitch is pretty, yeah?”

“Better, you may proceed with eating me out.”

Tracer dove right in. Or at least she would have if Widowmarker hadn’t been holding onto her hair. “Something wrong, love?”

“Oui, I forgot to give you instructions on how I like my pussy eaten.”

Tracer took out a notepad and pen. “I’m all ears.”

Widowmarker smiled at the attentive Brit. She could tell she’d eat her out right. “You are not allowed to finger me until I say so. I want you to use your tongue alternating between circular motions and spelling out the words SLIT FOLDS PUSSY CLIT CLIT. I also require you to hum the entire time.”

Tracer had her tongue sticking out as she wrote out the last part. “…gotta hum the entire time so take big breaths. Is there any particular song I should hum?”

“Vanity by the late and great Christina Aguilera.” Widowmarker propped her head up with a pillow, giving Tracer a sultry look when she said, “Bon appétit.”

Tracer dove in for real this time. She made big and small circles with her tongue, loving the way Widowmarker yanked on her short hair and clawed at her shoulders. The tip of her tongue swirled around Widowmarker’s clit much like the way she’d try to dislodge food from her teeth without using her fingers while she was in public and didn’t want others thinking she was a heathen: insistent and jabby. When she started spelling out the words SLIT FOLDS PUSSY CLIT CLIT, the blue assassin nearly dislocated her shoulder. Tracer may or may not have creamed her pants had she been wearing any.

“I’m so close, chérie. I want you to use your thumb and pinky from you right hand and your index, middle, and ring finger from your left hand and pump in and out of my pussy with wild abandon. You can do that for me, yes?”

“You got it!” Tracer was a little confused about the request – really, she had all the right fingers for a whole hand and could have just went in for an old-fashioned fisting – but she obliged. Next thing she knew, Widowmarker’s pussy clenched down on her fingers as the rest of her body shook. A torrent of hot sticky fluid gushed out all over Tracer’s hands. _That’s so hot._

Tracer licked her soaked hands, moaning at the taste. “You were right, Widowmaker – ”

“It’s actually _Widowmarker_ , but, since you’ve just fucked my lights out, please, call me Amélie.”

“Well, _Amélie_ , you were right. Your cum does taste different straight from your pussy. From there, it’s like I’m drinking Bonjour-Cola. From my hands, it’s right back to baguettes.”

Widowmarker lay on the blanket, lazily swirling the end of her ponytail around the tip of her finger. She stared at the hand Tracer was still cleaning up with her tongue. It glistened in the moon’s dim light, highlighting her lithe fingers. Widowmarker imagined Tracer’s hand would have no problem fitting into tight, wet spaces. Her loins were set alight again at the thought of that slender appendage fucking her in the ass, literally.

“Would you care to find out how my ass tastes?”

Tracer stopped mid-lick. Two meals in one day? She’d be a fool to pass up the opportunity. “Sure thing, love. I’m always up for dessert.”

Widowmarker got on her hands and knees and threw dat ass in a circle for Tracer. She reached into her ponytail for the lube she kept there. “Here,” she said, throwing the bottle to her eager companion. “Go nuts with it.”

Tracer squeezed a generous portion of the unscented lubricant onto her palm, thoroughly coating her dominant hand with the substance. She did the same for Widowmarker’s asshole. It puckered at her touch. She was helpless from mindlessly sinking her fingers into the spongy tissue.

“Don’t toy with me, ma petit baguette. I need you to eat out my ass like you’re trying to drink a milkshake that’s too thick to come out of the straw, so you have to take off the lid and scoop it into your mouth with your fingers like a heathen.”

“That’s,” Tracer started, still processing the imagery pouring into her mind courtesy of the blue assassin looking back at her on her knees. “That’s one hell of an ass eating.”

“Oui, so please get to it. We shouldn’t waste time.”

“Any special instructions?”

Widowmarker shook her head. “Non, you did so well with my pussy that I am letting you freestyle on my ass.”

Tracer smiled brightly at Widowmarker’s praise. She always did have a thing for gorgeous older women telling her she did a great job.

_Really drops my trousers it does._

Tracer nuzzled her face against Widowmaker’s twin cheeks, taking time to inhale the heavenly scent coming straight from the tap. _Fucking blueberries._

She eagerly stuck her tongue out for a taste. Sure enough, blueberries. “Mmm,” she moaned. “I dunno how you’ve done it, but I’m in heaven.” Tracer continued to tongue at Widomarker’s hole like it was taffy stuck to her molars and she was desperate to dissolve the candy and free her teeth.

Widowmarker’s toes curled from the surge of pleasure that came with the combination of Tracer’s compliment and wicked tongue fucking. Apparently, she shared a praise kink with the brunette eating out her ass like holy worship. “Please, chérie, I need you to enter the holy gates with your slender hand and pray at the walls of paradise. And just so we’re clear, I do mean for you to fist my asshole with wild abandon.”

Tracer saluted Widowmarker’s ass with her lubed-up hand, pushing it in the hot and ready oven with extra cheese for $6.99 moments later. She started off slow, but Widowmarker’s insistent gyrating urged her faster until it felt like she was running a marathon. _Wild abandon sure is a lot of work._

Widowmarker’s arms buckled from Tracer’s generous efforts. She was literally face down, ass up on a blanket on a roof across from the Mondatta rally getting fisted to high heaven.

_Mon Dieu! Mondatta! I almost forgot about his shiny robot ass._

On the cusp of her orgasm, Widowmarker pulled out her sniper rifle. She lined up her shot and pulled the trigger at the exact moment Tracer’s hand opened the floodgates in her pussy through her ass.

“Holy le fuck! I feel… I feel _alive!_ ” Widowmarker screamed into the night air. She fell limp to the roof, clutching her rifle tight in her arms. She rolled onto her back to look at the still panting brunette who had done the most wonderful job of fucking her. “Tiens tiens, that was pretty fucking good for an alleged non-American. I don’t say this a lot, but, thank-you.”

Tracer cheeks bloomed a bright red. The gorgeous blue woman had thanked her for fucking her on top of a roof. She was more than a bit flattered even though Amélie was a Talon operative. Oh, wait, fuck. Talon’s not good. She had just fucked the enemy. Bad Tracer.

“Well, fuck me sideways,” Tracer said. She peeked over the side of the roof and, sure enough, Mondatta’s dead body lay sprawled out on the ground.

“That’ll have to wait for another time, chérie,” Widowmarker said, completely dressed with her sniper rifle slung over her shoulder. “The drop ship is here to pick me up.”

She reached into her ponytail for a business card and flicked it at Tracer. “Call me sometime.”

And then she was gone.

Tracer, still naked, twirled the business card around her fingers. It had Widowmarker’s cellphone number on it with a purple kiss on the back. She sniffed it. “Blueberries…”

A 198.12 cm tall ruggedly handsome black man wearing orange socks and bunny slippers kneeled down next to the distraught Brit. “So, uh, you and the blue lady just thought it was a good idea to start fucking on the roof?”

“Heat of the moment?”

The man narrowed his eyes. “What it looked like was the heat of that sexy ass blue woman getting eaten out like New Year’s dinner. And then you just let her assassinate Mondatta.”

“That probably wasn’t the best idea, but, to be fair, it was a little hard to concentrate on him with my hand pumping in and out of her ass.”

He shook his head. “I’m disappointed in you Tracer.”

“Yeah, me too,” she said looking forlornly at the card still clutched in her hands.

-

Amélie returned home from the day’s mission exhausted but satisfied. She ran a hot bath in her outside fountain and opened a bottle of wine from which she sipped from, sippingly.

_If only every mission could go like today’s. But, c’est la vie._

The water stayed warm for another fifteen minutes, enough time to down the rest of her wine. She retired to her room afterwards to sleep for a long ass time.

She had barely been passed out for an hour when she sat up, gasping for air. “Angela!”

How could she have forgotten her angel?

_I have to go see her._


	3. Lovers Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amélie reunites with Angela. Will things be the same as before?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been so long since I last updated but I'm finally back. Just as a heads up, from here on out it'll be pharah/mercy/widowmaker. Sorrynotsorry. 
> 
> This is my longest chapter to date and a lot happens, especially in regards to the recalled Overwatch. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy it!

Previously on The Widowmarker…

“So, you killed your husband by shooting him in the dick?”

Widowmarker sat in an interrogation room somewhere in France, her wrists handcuffed to the table. The authorities finally caught the infamous husband killer one stormy day during an ultimate Frisbee tournament. Well, she actually turned herself in from the insurmountable guilt she felt from killing the love of her life one-hundred percent on accident.

“Non, you weren’t paying attention. I had just finished off a hella lot of wine because I was angry at my husband for tax evasion. One thing led to another and there I was, giving him my best smolder. I said to him, ‘Gérard, I want you to fuck me like one of your French wives, because I am your French wife, the only one you have.’ And then I changed my mind and rode his dick instead.” Widowmarker stretched her legs languidly with linguini and gusto. Most would prefer pesto to gusto, but she preferringly preferred the flavor of hard work to herbs and oil.

“And then you shot him in the dick?”

The officer questioning her was paying only half attention considering he was high off his mind and desperately wanted to appear completely sober but was convinced he was doing a terrible job of it because he was but his superior still wanted him to question Mrs. Lacroix even though when they met eyes earlier they both knew the truth, the kush was too damn fire.

“Oh, right, his dick. Non, I did not shoot him there. I was too busy riding it.”

“Right, yeah, makes sense.”

“Things were going well, really well. The floodgates were set to open even though he had yet to even caress my love button because he was busy punching it.”

“Love button?”

“Oui, my clitoris. With one hand he punched my clit into euphoria and with the other, the traitorous hand, he tickled my side. And I… I hate being tickled. So, I did the only reasonable thing.”

“You shot him in the dick?”

“Non, I have perfect aim. I headshot him.”

The officer slumped into his chair because he was standing the whole time. He just couldn’t piece it together. “Okay, so, hypothetically, if you shot him in the dick, how would you do it?”

Widowmarker thought all of two seconds before responding, “First, I would promptly stop riding his dick. It would do me no good to injure myself just to shoot some dick, you know? Then, I would hold his dick at the perfect angle and point the muzzle of my gun straight at his urethra and then…”

Officer-chan sat up in his seat, excitement shining through his red baked eyes. “And then what? What happens next?”

Widowmarker loosened the handcuffs from her wrists. The officer hadn’t done a good job of putting them on in the first place. She crawled over the table, grabbing the officer’s chin in a delicate hold between her thumb and pointer finger. “And then I pull the trigger. The bullet would rip through his urethra straight to his bladder. An explosion of piss would erupt like a lemonade fountain but piss instead of lemonade. Our bed sheets would be ruined, much like his penis… and bladder.”

Officer-chan-san’s eyes, drenched in the blood of his enemies, grew so big that he had to pop them back into their sockets. “That’s insane. What about… the meat? And the blood? Surely it would be bloody.”

“Oui, stupidly bloody. Gérard had a serious case of an erection before he died. Most of the blood in his body pooled into his penis and when it hypothetically exploded from a bullet ripping through his urethra, it coated everything crimson. The penis chunks were little accents dotting the otherwise seamless layer of blood. They looked like someone cut up Vienna sausages into quarters and then smashed them.”

Officer-chan-san-sama would have clutched his own penis sympathetically but he was too busy trying to chase a thought before it left him forever. “Why did you kill Gérard? Is it because you had another lover?” He pulled out a series of photos featuring Amélie literally elbow deep in a blonde woman.

“Gérard knew about Angela. She’s my girlfriend… was my girlfriend.” Widowmarker took a closer look at the photos. “And how did you get these photos? The police had no reason to be investigating me before my husband’s demise.”

“Oh, haven’t you heard?” The officer shaved off his hair and then spontaneously grew a mohawk which he shaved off in favor of growing a bowl cut only to have his hair fall out, leaving him bald. “This is a dream. Anything’s possible here.”

“Oui, ma petite aisselle, this is a dream,” Gérard’s ghost said, suddenly sitting in his wife’s lap.

Widowmarker pet his mustache, lightly tickling her fingers against the coarse, not to be confused with course, hairs. “Then why the fuck am I dreaming about turning myself in?”

“Well, according to the beginning of your dream, you were feeling insurmountably guilty about killing me one-hundred percent on accident.”

Guilt? Ridiculous. The only thing she felt guilty about was accidentally snapping Angela’s favorite reverse dildo in half. “It’s true that I killed you one-hundred percent on accident without any sort of outside influence, but it doesn’t keep me up at night. C’est la vie. Shit happens.”

Gérard leaned in close, his ghost lips grazing the outside of her ear. “Then what is keeping you up?”

The tip of her tongue, the place where her words were held captive, captively held her words captive lol. She knew the answer to the question, but it refused to budge past her lips. It hung in the air, familiar and warm, or was it cold? Temperature wasn’t really her thing.

Widowmarker nuzzled close against the figure in her lap. She lay her head against their bosom, sighing at the softness and the smell of perfume. “What’s this fragrance? I like it.”

“Don’t you remember? It shares the name with what you called my breasts.”

Cloud nine. That’s right. Widowmarker smiled as she picked up her head. “My angel is here.”

Dream Angela smiled back before frowning. “Am I really your angel if you’ve forgotten about me?”

Widowmarker jolted awake in her bed. “Angela!”

“Ay, keep it down over there. I just got tired enough to fall asleep,” Sombra said, cuddled up in bed next to Widowmarker.

Sombra and Widowmarker were friends, best friends. They were strictly gal pals involved in no extracurricular variants of friendship. Except that they fucked on the regular whenever they got bored or not bored or during missions. It was a lot. Except for last night. Last night they just had platonic sleepover time which lasted only an hour because that’s how long Widowmarker managed to sleep before she woke up from her dank ass dream.

“Perdón, I just had a dream where I realized that I forgot all about my girlfriend.”

Sombra rolled over to face Widowmarker, her eyes wide and shining with unshed tears. “I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.” She playfully socked her friend in the arm. “I was thinking you’d die old, alone, and cranky.”

Widowmarker laughed at the thought. Old and cranky? Sure. Those were traits she probably couldn’t change. But, alone? Preposterous, inconceivable, scarier the longer she thought about it. “I don’t think I’m capable of dying alone.”

“Really? Then why did you just now realize you forgot about your girlfriend?” Sombra smiled smugly before it was wiped away by a sudden pain in her arm. She rubbed at the spot Widowmarker slammed her fist into.

“I’m probably traumatized you little shit. I went through a lot of conditioning and physiological changes.” Widowmarker smirked at her friend still rubbing at her injured arm. “And besides, if I were going to die I’d at least drag your ass with me. It’s embarrassing to die alone.”

Sombra put up her hands in surrender. “Fine, you won’t die alone. But, just to be clear, you don’t mean that I’d die with you? Right?”

Widowmarker turned away from Sombra to get some more rest, her lips upturned at Sombra’s increasingly desperate questions.

“Amélie, I know you’re still awake. Am I gonna die with you or not? Are you implying that you’d kill me on your deathbed? I need to know!”

She didn’t get her answer until much later. (it was yes btw, of course, widowmarker would kill her best friend on her deathbed duh.)

The next day Widowmarker woke up refreshed and ready to get her girl back, except she had no idea where to find her. She shoved Sombra really hard a few times until she woke up. “Sombra, do you know where to find Angela Ziegler?”

“Yeah, sure.” Sombra snuggled back into her pillow to catch some more z’s. Alas, she couldn’t. She didn’t have a net and her best friend had decided to pull off her blanket. “Could you not? It’s barely past eleven and I have major plans to sleep in until two.”

This wouldn’t do, because, like, Widowmarker really wanted to find out where her girlfriend was so she could go visit her and be in love and kiss her and stuff. “Sombra, please, tell me where she is. Or else I’m going to push the whole ‘murdering my best friend as I’m dying’ thing up to a closer date.”

“What?” Sombra asked hella surprised. She thought best friends wouldn’t do each other like that, in the sense of killing each other and not boning each other every other Wednesday and twice on Fridays. (y’all like knew this was coming, it was literally a few paragraphs ago.) But since Widowmarker was indeed her best friend, she acquiesced, whatever the fuck that word means. “Word has it that she’s hanging out with the new Overwatch reboot over at Gibraltar.”

“Oh, worm?”

“Oh, hella worm.”

And so Widowmarker decided to get dressed to the nines to meet her girlfriend that she was pretty sure she was still in a relationship with, pretty suringly. The nines being her signature ponytail paired with a baseball cap, baseball shirt, baseball pants, cleats (of the baseball variety), baseball bat, baseball, base, bench, and stadium. She tucked Sombra in before she took off to see her love.

Her love, Angela Ziegler by the way, which also included Gérard by the way but since he’s dead and all it’s kind of too much effort for no tangible reason to mourn her husband every time she mentioned her girl, Angela Ziegler, her girlfriend, sat hunched over her desk doing lots of paperwork that she ignored her basic human needs, like being healthy and boning her girlfriend, whilst she drank coffee that had gone cold hours ago but didn’t refill because she’s balls deep in paperwork all the time because isn’t that how the trope goes??? at the Gibraltar base medical bay that she was one-hundred percent in control of because that’s just how shit goes.

“Wow,” she started, which isn’t really accurate to say because she didn’t pause to do anything she just went right from saying ‘wow’ to saying, “It’s really great to be too busy to have a social life of any kind so I just kind of stay in the lab all day and work myself to sleep at my desk every night instead of my bed that I’m prettttty sure is way comfier than my fucking desk,” she said sayingly as she happily and lesbianly carried on with her work.

“Hey babe, it’s me, your girlfriend, Pharah, Fareeha Amari, who you sometimes call daddy long legs in the throws of passionate love-making,” (for the purpose of clarity and ease we’ll just call her by her fucking name) Fareeha said, a bold, bright smile plastered on her face that could easily make just the whole wuluwu nut their panties like a ton of times. “I’ve come to remind you to, like, eat a bagel and run a lap around the base so you don’t get muscle atrophy… or whatever the fuck.”

“I think you meant to say, ‘so your muscles don’t atrophy’.”

“I said ‘whatever the fuck’ what more do you want from me? You’re the doctor.”

Ah, yes, her girlfriend, beautiful Fareeha whom she loved very much. Like, she was so in love with her and was pretty sure that she was her current and only relationship, not that she wasn’t against more than one relationship, but she was pretty sure she was only in one unless she was forgetting something. Fareeha was her morning star. She made every day a breeze to get through because love and stuff like that.

“Oh, Fareeha I would love to go out with you right now but something’s keeping me rooted in this spot and I think I’ll be missing out on important stuff if I leave now.” Angela looked up, a sheepish smile sheepishly sheeped on her face.

Fareeha looked at her oddly because she just couldn’t put together Angela’s expression at all. It was too weird. Needed more mirth and less sheep. “Oh, so it has nothing to do with that blue woman running full speed down the hallway toward the med bay screaming ‘Angela, I’m almost there. Don’t move out of that chair my love.’???????”

Now that Angela thought about it, she had ears that she had just finished using to listen to what Fareeha had to say. So, why didn’t she use them to listen to the fine ass blue woman? She deactivated her Fareeha only mode and let her ears take in the sound of a lover’s voice reuniting them with a forgotten frequency. Holy fuck, can it be? Angela sat up from her chair and raced to the glass sliding door that separated her from the woman coming ever closer to her open, waiting arms. She finally remembered what, rather whomst’ve, she had forgotten about. Amélie.

Widowmarker made it to the door, her cleats making the journey that much harder as she ran across linoleum tile. She extended her palms to cover the ones on the opposite side of the door. “My angel poptart, please forgive me. I’ve been through some things and have forgotten our relationship, but I’ve returned, and my love still burns for you.” Was that the right phrase? Still burns? Burns still?

Angela blushed starting from her fingertips, which was weird, but that’s what happened. “It’s all right. I only just now remembered our relationship in which we were in love. You beat me to it by like maybe a day or one restless night.”

Her fingertips tingled where they lay trapped upon the glass that separated her dancer’s. It had been so long, a confusing and indistinguishable amount of years that will probably remain vague but maybe not. Seeing Amélie again brought back the love she had for her as well as their actual relationship because hell yeah they were together now that they remembered that they had never broken up or anything.

“Amélie, I have something to tell you.” Angela reached back for Fareeha’s hand and brought her girlfriend before her other girlfriend that she was one-hundred percent girlfriending at the moment. “This is my girlfriend, Fareeha. We’ve been together for over a year now.”

Fareeha waved hi and then she verbally said hello. “Hello, I’m Fareeha. Amari. Fareeha Amari.”

“Oui, yes, I know you. You’re that Helix agent who I left motherless because I one-hundred percent killed your mother.”

Fareeha raised an eyebrow, giving Widowmarker a quick glance with the eyeball that sat under the raised brow. Or maybe it was more than a glance because she looked pretty hard at her for a good five minutes. It wasn’t quick at all and only made things hella tense. “So you’re the one mother’s always complaining about whenever her eye socket gets itchy. ‘I wouldn’t have to scratch it all the time if I had my fucking eyeball. Next time I see Widowmaker, I’m gonna tear out her eye with my bear hand, not to be confused with my bare hand, which I could also do if I chose to. Then we’ll see how she likes having to itch her socket all the damn time.’ She said that yesterday when she came over for dinner.” 

Widowmarker stood stunned. Her bubblegum that she had been chewing the whole time popped unexpectedly at the unexpected news that she did not expect to receive. “It’s Widowmarker, not Widowmaker. But, please, call me Amélie. Also, it’s kind of weird to call your mom _mother_ don’t you think?”

“No, plenty of people do it. Right, Angela?”

“I’m no expert on the subject, but, personally, I called my mother by her name and my father by his last name.”

Amélie looked lovingly at Angela. “Same.”

It was Fareeha’s turn to look stunned with popped gum all over her face. “That’s… How do I put this? Worse. That way less normal that just saying mother or father.”

“Non, there are three people here. Angela and I completely agree with each other which gives us the majority. You are the odd one out so, unfortunately, it is your method that is not normal.”

“I… can’t argue with that.” More like she wasn’t going to argue the matter any further. Three people didn’t make a sufficient sample size and it would take some time to create a legitimate questionnaire and receive the results. It was too much damn work to prove that they were horribly wrong and probably outnumbered. “Let’s talk about something less controversial. How about the weather? There’s always something going on with the clouds.”

“Fuck the weather. I want to talk about you and Angela. How did you two get together?”

Fareeha felt her cheeks grow hot. She was always happy to talk about her relationship with Angela, but the subject of how they got together was rather private. “I’ve always had the biggest crush on her and I guess I finally had the guts to confess to her a year ago when we met up again for the Overwatch recall.”

Angela smiled dreamily thinking about the day Fareeha burst into her office and confessed her love. However, there was more to it than that. The confession wasn’t even the first thing out of Fareeha’s mouth. “Darling, I think you left out the best part.”

Amélie hunkered down on a nearby chair with a bowl of popcorn. She could tell the situation was about to turn for the juicier. “Please, do go on.”

“I don’t think there’s much to go on about. I declared my love for you and here we are a year later, still hopelessly in love,” Fareeha said, desperately trying to keep the other events of that day under wraps. Her eyes sought Angela’s and silently pleaded with her to drop the subject. It didn’t work.

“Fareeha’s just being shy. She has a rare condition that makes her very desirable among the community.” Angela smirked as she saw Fareeha glance away looking breathtakingly flustered. “She’s an absolute power top.”

Amélie’s popcorn spilled out of her lap. Power top? That was the most arousing thing she’s heard in years. “So, you mean to say that she absolutely destroys your pussy every time you have sex?”

“Yup. In fact, a year ago, before she even confessed, Fareeha walked into my office, slipped on a pair of gloves and said to me, ‘Doctor, I want to shove my hand up your vagina.’ We didn’t even need lube because I came four times a row before she even touched me.”

Fareeha fisted Angela the first day they were together? Amélie felt a flare of heat spring from her no-no square. “We used to fist each other a lot. Do you… Do you want to do that right now instead of anything else?”

And then yada yada they have weird kinky sex but afterward… (no really, I’m skipping the smut part here. Did you want details or some shit? Sorry, I’ve turned over a new leaf. No more comedic smut scenes from me ever again :’))

(NAH I’M JUST FUCKIN’ AROUND. LET’S GO.)

Angela also felt the heat from her no-no square and started blushing from her fingertips, which, again, was rather weird but that’s what happened. “A-Amélie. Yes! I would love a fisting from you.” She looked back at Fareeha to make sure she was okay with all of this.

Fareeha gave the most smoldering smirk she could muster, loosening the tie she just put on because it was a bit tight against her throat. She wanted to be comfortable, you know? “Go on ahead, babe. But, don’t you think you’d have more fun if you weren’t wearing any clothes?”

“You are absolutely right.” Angela absolutely adored Oprah, in the most absolute way, especially the ‘You are absolutely right’ gif feat. Oprah Winfrey. It was her favorite. She shed her clothes where she stood, revealing that she was absolutely shredded. There was a whole eight-pack under her usual attire of a bland-ass turtleneck and lab coat with five hundred coffee stains. Oh, yeah, and all the coffee stains were in the same exact spot.

“Angela,” Amélie ejaculated (lmaoo sorry but ejaculated made me laugh). “You’re more shredded than the parmesan cheese I put on my daily serving of linguini pasta.”

“Ja, I started going to the gym a few weeks after I started dating Fareeha. She said it was fun.” Angela glared at Fareeha, who put her hands up in surrender. “Turns out I hate it, but I have abs now so it’s Gucci. And perhaps you’d have abs as well if you didn’t eat pasta every day.”

Gucci as in Gucci Shrimp and definitely not Versace Lobster? That was her favorite brand. Amélie closed the distance between them, making sure she looked hella cool the whole time. “Non, I don’t think I could give up pasta. It’s one of the three food groups on the forbidden food pyramid. Pasta, popsicles, and popcorn are my livelihood.”

No wonder it’s called the forbidden food pyramid. Eating just pasta, popsicles, and popcorn wasn’t a healthy diet by any means. Angela embraced Amélie, drawing tetrahedrons across her naked back with a marker. “Will you promise me that after today you’ll eat maybe a handful of celery? Perhaps a pineapple or two?”

Amélie pulled out a pair of gloves and a bottle of lube from her ponytail. “Sí, anything you ask.”

Maybe she should have asked her to change her whole diet if it was that easy. But, unfortunately, the moment had passed. Angela sat on her knees with her face angled up at Amélie and closed her eyes. “Okay, I’m ready.”

Amélie popped the lid off the two-liter bottle of lube. Slowly and carefully, she poured the clear substance over every inch of Angela.

Fareeha looked on at the scene entranced and oddly aroused. The sight of Angela completely soaked head to toe in the shitty lighting of the med bay was… really hot.

“Lie on your back and hold your legs open for me my linguini alfredo.” Amélie put on her gloves, watching as Angela spread apart her thighs, the blush from her fingertips rushing across the rest of her body. She could tell she was thinking about that pasta.

Amélie spread open Angela’s folds, tugging lightly at the hair there because why not? She leaned in close for a taste of forbidden treasure. Fucking. Linguini. Alfredo. “Couldn’t get the thought of pasta out of your head, could you?”

Angela shook her head no, shuddering when she felt herself leaking at the thought of slurping up a giant plate of noodles. She didn’t think she had a food kink, but there was so much evidence piling up all of a sudden.

Amélie probed inside Angela’s cavern o’ mystery with a finger. It went in easy and so did the second, third, and fourth and a half one. She smirked at Angela’s whine when she removed her fingers. It quickly turned into a moan when her tongue took their place. Amélie hummed along to the Oscar Meyer theme song licking and sucking until a torrent of molten cummies splashed all over her mouth and jaw.

“I can’t really place this flavor. What were you thinking about this time?”

Angela caught her breath before she answered, “Buffalo chicken wings.” Her breath hitched, staggering between short and long intakes. “O-OoooOOOh. Ja, ja, ja! (but like read that last part in Spanish) Don’t stop!”

Amélie slipped her hand inside of Angela’s thotful spot while she was busy talking about chicken wings. She set a Fast and Furious 22: The Apocalypse of the Racing Industry pace, enjoying the melodies streaming out of Angela’s mouth. She’d climb a few octaves until her voice cracked, plummeting back down to middle C. It was quite literally music to Amélie’s ears.

Angela finally came undone when Amélie played Old McDonald Had a Farm against the small, sensitive, and erectile part of her genitals at the anterior end of her vulva, the C L I T O R I S, with her devilish fingers.

Fareeha was more than a little affected at the scene before her. She eyed the puddle growing across the floor and had to admit that her undies were absolutely ruined. But, like, if she put them in the wash they’d be all right. No need to throw them out or anything. She snapped out of her reverie when she felt a pair of cool hands running up her bare thighs because she was wearing shorts.

“Fareeha, did you enjoy the show?” Amélie asked, her motive clearly tinging her words. She wanted to get laid by a power top.

“I’d enjoy it more if it didn’t stop.” Fareeha stood up from her seat and quickly stripped out of her shorts and Hawaiian themed button-down shirt. She bent over and moved both of Amélie’s hands behind her back before sitting back down. “Be a good girl and make me come in under five minutes without your hands. I’ll fuck you afterward as a reward.”

Amélie didn’t need to be told twice. Maybe thrice, but definitely not twice. She dove into da pussy like she was captain of the swim team at the national championships or maybe like she was Katie LeDecky at the Olympics. Both of those analogies had to do with swimming. She started off with a few teasing licks to Fareeha’s fun button, her clitoris to be clear, alternating between there and exploring the rest of her hidden treasure, her folds to be clear. When she felt Fareeha’s breath hitch, she quickly switched to her slit, giving it a long, languid lick before diving her tongue into her sweet, sweet honey pot. And it did taste like honey.

Amélie began to sweat from her ministrations. Liquid beads slid down from her hairline at random intervals. She didn’t dare look up at Fareeha’s face. The woman’s eyes were steadfast in their staring. It was such a fucking power move that Amélie had no choice but to give her best. She couldn’t tell how wound up Fareeha was which made her all the more excited thinking that she would come undone unexpectedly like a jack-in-the-box playing a tune until a dope ass clown popped out without warning.

Cinnamon. When Fareeha finally came it was with a rush of cinnamon flavor. It reminded Amélie of cinnamon buns and she fucking _loved_ cinnamon buns. “Did you come in time?” Amélie asked, her eyes lidded and her face sticky from the aftermath.

Fareeha didn’t answer. She got up from her seat, pulling Amélie back towards where Angela was on the floor. “While I fuck you, I want you to fuck Angela again. Here, use this.”

Amélie caught the massive strap-on that was thrown to her. With the style of strap-on given to her, Fareeha would have a hard time fucking her if she put it on correctly. So, she did the only sensible thing she could think of. She attached it to her face.

“Angela, I want you to sit on my face and ride my dick.”

Angela sat up from the floor, her post-sex haze quickly clearing up at the sight of the massive dildo bobbing from Amélie’s face. It was kind of adorable. “Are you sure about that? I know thick thighs save lives, but they can also end them. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

Amélie nodded her head, the dildo bobbing along with her movements. “Oui, I am quite sure.” She lay on the floor, making sure to put a pillow behind her head, and spread her legs open for whatever it was Fareeha decided to do to destroy her pussy.

As it turns out, Fareeha also had on a massive strap-on, but hers was put on correctly in the correct area. She tried not to laugh when she saw the serious assassin with the obviously out of place dildo strapped to her face.

And well, there’s no other way to put it than, they fucked. Angela rode Amélie’s face dick with the passion of a space shuttle leaving orbit and Fareeha wrecked Amélie’s walls with her correctly placed dick, playing with her clit the whole time. The med bay became nut city and if anyone walked in they’d be greeted with the smell of a buffet before they’d even see all three writhing bodies on the floor. It was lit.

“That was the best concussion I’ve ever gotten in my life,” Amélie said after they’d all finished nutting into oblivion. She fished out a blunt from her ponytail, lit it, and then took a long ass drag before she passed it along to her gal pals. “So, who’s in charge around here? You know, the head honcho of this very illegal organization.”

Fareeha slowly exhaled the smoke she held in her lungs, thinking about the question. “D.Va,” she answered.

“D.Va? You mean, the MEKA pilot that abandoned her home country out of the blue for no reason a few months ago?”

“…Yeah. That’s her,” Fareeha said, slumping against Angela’s right side. “But, like… She wasn’t our first leader.”

“You are absolutely right,” Angela said, shaking her head slowly in agreement. Her eyes were completely baked red, probably from finishing off the rest of the blunt by herself. “There was someone before her.”

Fareeha scrunched up her nose, confusion settling across her face. “They weren’t really a person though. Is it correct to say ‘someone’?”

Once again, Angela found herself agreeing with her grillfriend. “You are absolutely right,” she said in the same tone and manner as before. “There was a gorilla before D.Va. His name was Winston and he was the reason she defected from the MEKA program in Busan, South Korea and became a social pariah. He had a shit ton of bitcoins and bribed her with them.”

Amélie shook with laughter snuggled against Angela’s left side. “So, you mean to tell me, the new Overwatch was run by a gorilla and everyone took orders from him?” That was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. “Did he–” Another fit of laughter shook through Amélie. “Did he reward you all with things like BANANAS?”

Angela and Fareeha grinned at the sight of Amélie doubled over, tears streaming down her face. She looked adorable, completely out of character for a so-called emotionless killer. The kush was definitely fire.

“Don’t forget the peanut butter,” Fareeha said. “He paid us in peanut butter _and_ bananas.”

“You are absolutely right. I almost forgot.” Angela snickered to herself, eventually having to hold onto her two companions to keep from falling over. “I remember telling Winston that we were basically working for free. For a world-renowned scientist, he didn’t get that people needed to get paid with money for their services. ‘But, we’re saving the world,’ he’d defended as if the spirit of doing good could somehow buy me a new Cadillac.”

“So, wait, you said D.Va is in charge now. What happened to Winston?”

“He died,” Fareeha answered.

“Quoi? What le fuck do you mean he died?”

“Well, it was around the time D.Va came to power,” Fareeha started, trying to remember all the details surrounding Winston’s death. “Everyone was getting sick of not getting paid and the rumor going around was that they were just going to leave if Winston didn’t find a way to compensate them properly for their time. D.Va stepped up and offered to set things right.”

 

_Jesse McCree stood leaning across, no, not against, the wall, his arms folded across his chest. He was in trouble with his boyfriend and fellow recalled Overwatch agent, Genji. They were having a lover’s quarrel because he may have accidentally on complete accident licked Hanzo’s asshole at Mei’s birthday party the week before. Did he mention that it was an accident? Genji wouldn’t listen to a word he said in defense, especially since Hanzo went around boasting about the incident to anyone he could get to listen._

_“That damn Shimada, ruining my relationship with the obviously better and cooler Shimada. And it’s not like I can go out and buy a present to try and smooth things over. Winston refuses to pay us with anything other than peanut butter and bananas. And the bananas aren’t even fresh, they’re frozen!”_

_D.Va spotted McCree brooding across the wall that he was brooding across (see? told you. he was across the wall, not against it). She also heard everything he grumbled to himself because she’d actually been staring at him the whole time, sitting only a few meters away. Surprisingly he didn’t notice her blatant eavesdropping. “Say, McCree,” she said as she approached him. “Trouble in paradise?”_

_“Yeah, you could say that. I’m more upset at the pay situation though. If I’d known that Winston expected us to save the world just out of the kindness of our hearts, I wouldn’t have come back.”_

_“You wouldn’t have gotten together with Genji if you didn’t come back,” D.Va pointed out. “If the money situation got sorted out, would that make everyone happier? Would that make things better for you?”_

_“Well, Hana, I’d say that’d make everything just golden.”_

_D.Va smiled from the corner of her mouth. “Leave it to me, then.”_

“Wait, wait, wait. What’s going on all of a sudden? Why is everything italicized?” One second Amélie was listening to Fareeha talk about D.Va, the next, it seemed that she was seeing and hearing a memory straight out of D.Va’s head.

“It looks like we’re being shown a flashback that none of us experienced ourselves. It’s quite interesting,” Angela said. “Ooh, there’s even a title to it: D.Va’s Rise to Power. Sounds thrilling.”

 

_“Say, Winston. About the money situation,” D.Va said. She’d scheduled a meeting with the gorilla after she talked to McCree the other day. Something had to be done about the lack of paychecks._

_“Yes, Hana? Is it okay if I call you that?”_

_“No. So, about the money situation. When are you going to start paying everyone?”_

_“That’s just silly. The world needs heroes! I don’t need to pay them. In fact, according to my research, people need adequate sustenance and shelter to survive. They have adequate shelter here at Gibraltar and I give everyone a steady supply of peanut butter and bananas. There shouldn’t be anything to complain about.”_

_Is he… Is he serious? “Winston. People have wants and needs. In order to satisfy them, they need money to pay for items and services. At least, that’s how it works in the modern world. You need to start cutting everyone a paycheck. They can’t buy Cadillacs with peanut butter and frozen bananas.”_

_Winston just shrugged. “I couldn’t pay them if I wanted to. As a gorilla, I have no need for money. It’s never been important to me. So, when I bribed you earlier this year to join Overwatch, I gave you all the bitcoins I had. All fifteen billion of them.”_

_D.Va’s gum that she’d been chewing the whole time popped all over her face. “You’re broke?”_

_“Yup,” Winston happily agreed. “But I’m sure everyone will understand.”_

_D.Va reached over Winston’s desk and grabbed the unopened jar of peanut butter sitting there. She popped off the lid and tore the protective seal before dunking in two of her fingers for a taste of that smooth, creamy peanut butter. D.Va really liked the stuff. “You have it all wrong, Winston. Your agents aren’t happy about the situation. Some of them even want to leave. Do you have any ideas on how you can make money?”_

_Winston didn’t hear a single thing she said. His eyes were transfixed on the jar of peanut butter blatantly snatched before, well, his eyes. It was his lifeblood. “Hana…”_

_“It’s D.Va to you.”_

_“My apologies, D.Va. Could you give me back my peanut butter?”_

_“Relax, I’m not gonna eat it all. A little double dipping, maybe, but there’ll be some left.”_

_“It’s not like that. I physically need peanut butter to be as close to me as possible or I’ll go on a rampage. It’s a side effect of the genetic modifications done to me.”_

_“Wow, Winston. I thought you were a scientist. You and I both know that sounds like bologna.” D.Va kept eating the peanut butter because, like, it wasn’t a big deal. Just some creamy nuts._

_Winston felt anger course through his veins. His heart beat faster and his skull throbbed like it was going to burst open. “D.Va, I warned you! Primal–” And then he fell over onto the ground._

_Oh shit._

_D.Va raced to Winston’s side, panicking that the gorilla was no more. “Winston? Are you all right?” She placed her ear over Winston’s chest to check that his heart was still beating. The telltale sounds of a happy, healthy, beating heart washed over her ears, soothing away the fear that she’d accidentally killed him. “Oh, thank god. I’m sorry about the peanut butter, Winston. Let me give it back to you.”_

_As D.Va lifted her head away from Winston’s furry chest, she heard what sounded like an explosion. A heart explosion. The gorilla’s body shook for a moment before going still once more._

_Fuck._

“Oh, wow. So that’s how he died,” Fareeha said. “She never told anyone, but, seeing this, I don’t blame her.”

“Could you pass the popcorn, Fareeha?” Amélie asked. “I think there’s going to be another flashback coming up.”

“Here, I’ll just put it in Angela’s lap so we can all share.”

 

_D.Va stood in front of Winston’s open coffin as head mourner. It was her job to be sad about the deceased for the longest in the most visible way. Considering the fact that only half the agents came to the funeral, it wasn’t hard. She turned around to address them all, her features schooled over with a stern, strong look. “Are there any last words before we move our dearest Winston for burial?”_

_The room remained silent as D.Va scanned the area for a volunteer because it was kind of messed up that no one was going to say anything about poor Winston. “Ah, yes, Tracer. Of course, you can spill your guts in front of all your friends and co-workers.”_

_Tracer was balling her eyes out, but she dutifully stood up to say something about her good friend, Winston. “So, um, I think I might be the only one here who gave a shit about Winston but fuck you guys. Buckle up and listen to what I have to say. Winston was super cool. He made my chronal accelerator and saved my life, you know? So what if he never paid us and kind of strung us along under the guise of saving the world? We’re bloody heroes!”_

_Tracer’s sobbing renewed with vigor. Her face was red and snot streamed out of one nostril. “Fuck, I really can’t do this. I love you Winston, but I haven’t been able to fuck my girlfriend for months because we didn’t get paid. I couldn’t afford to go visit her. That’s really messed up man. Peace out.” She sat back down, simultaneously sad about Winston’s demise and her non-existent sex life._

_“Beautifully said, Tracer. Now, everyone, if you’d all follow me out back, we can proceed with the burial.”_

_The doors to the on-base cathedral burst open, because, duh, Winston was Catholic. An oversized hamster carrying a half-eaten banana rushed inside, stopping just a few meters in front of Winston’s coffin. The hamster dropped his banana. He also spit out the sunflower seeds in his cheek pouch._

_“Squeakers squeak squeak squawk!”_

_“He says: Winston, I finally came to visit but you’ve died! How can this be?” A device hanging around the hamster’s neck translated what was said._

_FUCK. Not his best friend, Hammond. “I’m sorry little guy. It was just his time to go… of completely natural causes. You’ve come in time for the burial if you’d like to join us,” D.Va said, hoping to appease the angry, oversized rodent._

_“Unintelligible hamster screeches.”_

_“He says: I’m going to go bury Winston myself. Once I’m done, Overwatch is officially my mortal enemy, my nemesis. You’ll all pay for killing my best friend.”_

_Hammond dragged Winston’s coffin to the base’s Catholic burial grounds, crying the whole way there._

_“I guess that saves us the trouble of burying him,” D.Va said, looking unsure about what just happened._

_The rest of the agents that attended the funeral got up from their seats, some of them murmuring about leaving the base._

_“Wait. Before you all leave, there’s something I’d like to say.”_

_The crowd of agents turned back to look at D.Va, giving her their full attention._

_“In lieu of Winston’s untimely demise, I’d like to nominate myself as the new Overwatch Commander. I know I’d make a great leader if you all agree to it.”_

_“Will you pay us?”_

_“Yes, of course.”_

_“With money?”_

_“Absolutely.”_

_All the agents broke down in happy tears. With D.Va as their new leader, they’d finally get paid. They crowded around her giving their heartfelt thanks as they chanted her name with joy._

_D.Va smiled to herself. She would do her best._

“That’s neat. I didn’t know we had a nemesis already. And to think, it’s that cute hamster I keep seeing glaring outside the base. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to fuck Angela’s lights out in her office during the funeral,” Fareeha said, mindlessly pumping her fingers in and out of her girlfriend. They ran out of popcorn ages ago. What else was she to do with her hand?

“Oui, I also think the hamster is pretty cute. If you ever need someone to shoot him in the head, call me.” Amélie also worked her fingers in and out of Angela, right alongside Fareeha’s. It was a tight fit, but, from the looks of it, Angela was on cloud nine. Stopping her ministrations was the last thing on Amélie’s mind. Except that it wasn’t. She was tired as shit and wanted to take a nap above all else.

Thankfully, Angela bust a nut at least ten times when she finally came from the double fingering extravaganza featuring Fareeha and Amélie. She opened her eyes, still bleary from all the energy it took to cream her panties so much in such little time. “Amélie. You must be tired. You ran all the way here from France, yes?”

Amélie nodded her head. It was the longest run of her life, but she was a sucker for love… and fisting. God, did she especially love fisting.

Angela picked herself off the floor, extending her arms out for her lovers to help them up. “Let’s go take an afternoon nap in my quarters.”

Amélie was the first one in bed once they reached the good doctor’s room. She fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillows.

“So, that’s Amélie?”

“Yes, and from the looks of things, she hasn’t changed a bit. She’s still doing whatever she wants even with blue skin and the skills of a highly trained assassin. It made me happy that she came back today.”

She wasn’t exactly truthful earlier with Amélie. While she wasn’t always at the forefront of her mind, Angela never forgot about her.

“She’s a Talon agent. That’s, like, the opposite of an Overwatch agent. It’ll be difficult to have her back in your life.”

“At least she _is_ back. A weight’s been lifted from my mind, sort of like when you think you’ve left porn running on a public computer, but you come back relieved to find out that it was only softcore porn and the audio was off.”

Fareeha couldn’t relate to the scenario at all. Who watches porn on public computers anymore? Did Angela not have a cell phone? “Angela, you do have a cell phone, right?”

“Yes, of course. You send nudes to it all the time and vice versa. Why do you ask?”

A kink, then. Angela’s public computer porn watching had to be a kink. “No reason. Just trying to piece some things together.”

Angela slid under the covers next to Amélie. “Come nap with us. We can talk about cellphones and pieces and tasteful pornography later.”

Fareeha decidedly did _not_ want to talk about the last bit, but she dutifully crawled into the bed.

It wasn’t until the next day that any of them woke up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Until next time! Whenever that is...

**Author's Note:**

> Stay tuned for the next installment!


End file.
